


Gunning It From the Get-Go

by Entropyrose



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cynicism, Dark Thoughts, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rumlow gets hot watching Bucky suck candy, mentions of bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow makes quiet-time for himself and the Winter Soldier. Told from Rumlow's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunning It From the Get-Go

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to appropriately tag/label this fic, please let me know in the comments section if I forgot anything or if I need to change anything! Thank you!

_* * * * *_

_Like a well-oiled engine_

_It’s the way that you gun it_

_Are you running for your life_

_Or are you running from it?_

_* * * * *_

 

 

Fate has a way of knocking you flat on your ass. Whether you go out there, guns blazing like a blood-hungry madman or bury your head ears-deep in sand, we all end up picking gravel out of our teeth, all thanks to the shit-box called life. Someway, somehow, fate comes knocking and usually does so with brass knuckles.  

 

I have always chosen the path of greatest resistance. I know it’ll kill me in the end, probably sooner than later. But it is going to be one hell of a ride and when I approach the fiery gates and the Devil’s waiting for me at the end, I’ll be able to give that fucker a flying high-five. Because dammit, _I lived._

 

Nah, I’m just shitting you. There isn’t anything at the end. This ride? You put your quarter in and mount your steed, and hang on to that pony for dear life ‘cause when that fucker finally bucks you off—that’s it. There’s nothing…I know. I see it at the end of every mission, in what we call the pound-down room. We drag my dead men in there, flop their desecrated carcasses up on wooden slabs, strip ‘em down, hose ‘em off, incinerate whatever body parts didn’t fall off on the truck-ride back and send them home to their parents in Folger’s cans. Don’t give me any of that shit about the hereafter, the glistening pearly gates, or that fire-n-brimstone bullshit. We go back to the ground the same way we crawled out and the only thing that matters is the present.

 

My present, in particular, looks pretty damn nice. It takes the form of an unusually doll-faced soldier that I have had the pleasure of working with for two long years, now. He stares down at me with an almost nervous smile, the ends of his damp hair trailing down, tickling my face. This is a rare occasion; one of those moments that I breathe everything into memory, for both of us. Because in a few minutes the asshole egg-head scientists are going to come in here and turn the kid’s brain into cake-batter. My head is resting on his lap, warmth radiating from his folded legs and the cheap lights in the ceiling. I can’t help but let a satisfied moan slide past my gritted teeth. He strokes my hair back softly, and I wonder how much he remembers this time. He’s only been out of the ice-box for three days. Long enough to get out, complete the mission, and get turned back into a human popsicle again. I wonder how many times it has been, how many more times he has left in him before his body is spent and they throw him away like so much trash.

 

But he isn’t thinking about any of that—he only thinks about what he is told to.

 

My heart, if I had one left, would absolutely fracture just thinking about all the shit he has been through. Luckily, however, those feelings have been erased out of me and I know that I am just as much of a tool as he is. _But we make the most of it, don’t we sugar?_ I reach up and touch the radiant skin of his cheek. He bats his incredibly thick eyelashes—too long to belong to a mere mortal—and nuzzles into the touch.

 

We just took a bath. And by “we” I mean “he”. I promised to make it quick, and I did, spraying him down, watching the blood swirl down the drain along with the bubbles. When we keep the shower under 3 minutes, that leaves us with an extra 12. I shave off some more time by instructing him to dress as I grab the med kit and patch up the nastiest wounds, the ones that will take some time to heal. That’s an extra 6 or 7 minutes, depending. Some nights we get all the time we want—when we are on a mission, stuck in some ramshackle cabin out in the middle of the woods—but when the job is done, we all head home. Some of us in body bags. Some of us—the soldier and me—well. We make it out. We have each other’s backs. And that is something, at least.

 

When we “come home”, it’s back to business as usual. I’m his superior, and I guess it’s sort of become my unofficial responsibility to take care of the kid. I don’t mind. In fact, if I’m being honest…

 

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” I announce, jabbing a hand into the pocket of my fatigues. The soldier’s head tilts and I swear if he had a little puppy tail he’d be wagging the damn thing in anticipation. I crinkle the surprise in my hand and draw it out. He reaches for it instantly, and I draw my hand back with a sense of urgency, as I see the metal claw coming. He stops himself, and looks at me as if he has done something terribly wrong and expects to be beaten. I soften the muscles of my face and smile. “It’s alright, man. We’re good.” His ears prick up at the crinkling sound I make when I twist off the wrapper. I’m so fucking proud it’s ridiculous. I was able to swipe one off some bank teller on our last mission, and have been saving it for this moment. I know he won’t remember the taste, but that’s okay. Just means I can surprise him again with the same damn thing later on; my options on what I can sneak past check-points are pretty limited.

 

His steel-blue eyes widen, his eyebrows do that “uppity” thing that sets a crease along his brow. “A sucker?” He practically breathes the word.

 

“Yeah. Ah, cherry or strawberry, I think, I’m not—“ his mouth closes around the little red globe with a “pop” and that makes me snicker. I lift my fingers away, and his head lolls back to the wall as he moans happily around the stem. I don’t have to see my reflection to know I am grinning like a complete idiot. _You deserve it, kid._

He hungrily laps at the treat and I can feel my pants getting tighter. I’m pitching a fucking tent, Goddamn it. I swallow hard and try not to look like I am staring as I do exactly that. His mouth is pouty and shaped like two poached pears and it’s not hard to replace that sucker with something else in my mind. A weird tingling sensation goes off in my gut…what is that, like, guilt? Over fucking what, getting my jollies as the soldier bites off half the stick?

 

He pulls away, examining the now half-gone globe and looks down at me as if expecting me to get mad or something. “That’s yours, doll,” I slide a hand up his naked bicep—the flesh one—and give it a reassuring squeeze. Without hesitation, he devours it after that. I quickly pull the empty stick out of his mouth. “No, no, we don’t eat that.”

 

The soldier laughs softly and drags an arm across his mouth. “Sorry.”

 

“Glad you liked it,” I say. “Do I get a kiss?” I don’t even care if the assholes in surveillance are watching. What the fuck’re they going to do about it?

 

Sometimes he slides me a look of unfamiliarity, like he’s Alice in fucking Wonderland staring down the rabbit hole, unsure of how deep it goes. Not this time. This time, he leans in, surrounding me with the scent of ivory soap and coconut shampoo and the velvety smell that is purely him. Our lips touch, like igniting firecrackers. I reach up into the kiss, grabbing the back of his head and pulling his mouth on top of mine. He lets out a smooth moan, and his lips part instinctively.

 

We have been working on this. I have been able to catch him remembering some things, some places, some scents—mostly out of non-visual sensory stimulation, like taste, touch, and feel. I want him to remember me. I’m getting tired of needing him, needing to bang the shit out of his pearly pink asshole and having to lead him through the motions like it’s our first fucking time, every time. _Like fucking prom night, man._

 

“Cherry,” I breathe against his bottom lip, sucking in the saccharine taste, swirling it around my tongue.

 

“Cherry,” he agrees with a playful grin.

 

The clang of the metal door makes his head jerk back up, and I can feel his spine go rigid. I squeeze his knee, trying to encourage him to relax, as if nothing is going to happen. As if the fucking poindexters aren’t going to come in here, tear him away from me, from our save haven that I have created, and throw his head into a meat-grinder.

 

“You two love-birds about finished?,” one of them says. I never bothered memorizing the names of the white-coats. They’re all the fucking same to me, and I am sure that’s how I appear to them, too.

 

They take him out of my arms and strap him into the chair, even has his hand stretches out for mine. I can’t hold it, though, or I will get my brains fried, too, and unlike the “asset” I don’t have super-healing abilities and I’m pretty sure my brains would come out of the back of my head looking a lot like swiss cheese.

 

There’s that feeling again, the one that reaches right through the pit of my stomach and twists. It happens every time they put him under. And lately, that feeling has been getting stronger, more intense.

 

I dunno. Maybe it’s the food. Shit here tastes worse every time we get back from an assignment.

 

I stick around watching them scramble my buddy’s brains and listening to the excruciating roar that tears through his lungs until they are finished with him or he passes out from the pain, whichever comes first.

 

Then they freeze him, and I carry on, heading to the briefing room for a full mission report. I’ve got another mission of my own to carry out, though, and I vow to myself that I am going to make it back to that bank again sometime before our next assignment and scoop up a fistful of suckers, as many as I can carry, in every fucking flavor they’ve got.                                

 

 

 

 


End file.
